Shadowalker
by Prisoner 24601
Summary: In Denerim's dark underbelly there is one who prowls the shadows protecting the innocent. But when she crosses paths with an Antivan crow, it may be her undoing.  Chapter 9: On the eve of the alienage purge, the Arl Howe is visited by the Shadowalker.
1. Chapter 1

This is a multi-chapter work in progress written for this fantastic kmeme prompt:

_The City Elf Origin happens as canon, but little does Vaughan know that F!Tabris is secretly the shadow of Denerim... lone badass vigilante that saves the innocents from the dark underbelly of the city. OP wants to see F!Tabris beat the shit out of every rapist bastard there, Batman style. Ie. grabbing people out of the shadows and leaving broken bodies for them to find. Sex could be Nelaros being F!Tabris Lois Lane (they know each other in her vigilante identity) or F!Tabris admitting to Zevran in bed her deepest secret - that she's the Denerim Shadow._

Since it's growing into a huge monster of a story, I figured I'd start posting it here. For now, the rating is T, but will probably be bumped up to M in later chapters. Feedback is greatly appreciated. What you liked/didn't like or thought worked/didn't work is especially helpful.

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_**Shadowalker**__ – Chapter One_

Shianni is the one who finds Kallian kneeling over the bloody corpse of her mother, eyes wide, face pale, slender shoulders shaking. While the shouts of the gathering crowd demand answers from the girl still in shock, Shianni shoulders through the onlookers, snapping at them to move back. She grabs her cousin's hand, sticky with blood, and leads Kallian home, away from the pitying stares of the onlookers. And doing her best not to burst into tears of her own, Shianni washes away the blood, checks for injuries and finally wraps Kallian in a worn blanket.

Eventually, Soris appears with Elder Valendrian. When they tell Kallian that her father will live, relief is the first emotion that Shianni sees crack through the haze of shock. But it is gone as soon as the questions start.

With her answers, Kallian paints a picture in a numb monotone. Of three drunken, bored shem on a hot summer night, looking for a way to make easy coin. Of a brutal and swift attack over a string of glass beads, worn by Kallian's mother, mistaken for pearls. Of a struggle that ends with two dead, two missing, and two people whose world has been shattered beyond repair.

When Soris and the elder leave, Shianni thinks that _now_ Kallian's tears will come. Instead Kallian speaks and Shianni cannot tell which breaks her heart more: the still blank look on Kallian's face or the words that are spoken.

"It's my fault."

"Don't say that! Of course it's not your fault."

Kallian meets Shianni's eyes for the first time that night. "No. It is. I was the one who pestered father into going to the market district to see the bards. We wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me."

Shianni grabs Kallian's shoulders trying to be gentle, fighting the urge to shake her cousin until she understands that there is no guilt in being a little girl who wants to hear songs of honorable knights and outlaw heroes.

"Listen to me. You are not to blame."

"If I paid more attention to mother's lessons, I could have helped her fight them off."

Shianni cannot bear it any longer, her voice grows thick and her pretty face twists. "You're _eleven_. They were three grown _shem_." She spits the word out with all of the contempt she can muster. "They were faster, stronger and well armed. There's nothing you could have done."

Kallian is silent for a long time until finally something else cracks through the numbness, an ice cold fury much darker than simple grief and too painful to bear in anyone, much less a child.

"Then I will learn to become stronger and faster and better armed, so that when I find them, I can kill them."

And with that, Kallian turns and walks out of the room, leaving Shianni to weep the tears that she could not shed.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Shadowalker**_ – _Chapter Two  
_

Soris worries. With each step up the rickety stairs he wonders if he is making a terrible mistake.

In truth, he'd rat out Kallian to the rest of the family if he thought they could stop her obsession, but Soris knows that for his cousin, who has spent the last six years training and preparing, there is no such thing as letting the past go. Soris cannot bear the thought of adding to Shianni and Uncle Cyrion's already huge burdens, they carry enough responsibility as it is, but neither can he abandon his cousin to face danger alone even if she is foolishly seeking out trouble. For as much as he worries, Kallian has been his hero since they were small and he will help her walk into the darkness even though he is terrified about where it will lead.

So he covers for her, making up excuses and lies about where Kallian spends most of her free time. He spars with her so she can test new techniques on him. And even though she does not ask him, Soris studies how to treat wounds and injuries, hoping that he will never have to use his newfound knowledge, but knowing that once she puts her plan into motion the day will come when his skill will be the only thing standing between her and death.

Today he brings her parts for the mechanical contraptions she is always tinkering with. The metal pieces from the Wonders of Thedas clink softly in his pack as he climbs up to the top of the abandoned building and slips the key into the lock of the door.

Inside the large room, Kallian sits hunched over a workbench scattered with delicate tools and fiddles with a metal hook in her hand. She doesn't look up from her work when she asks, "Did you bring them?"

"Yes." Soris unsholders his pack and pulls out the metal parts, setting them down in front of the glass jars and vials of strange and deadly alchemist powders and poisons that neatly line the back of the workbench. The tiny gears must be enchanted; they glow softly against the wood. "What are they for?"

Kallian does not answer. Instead she picks up two of the gears and fits them into the odd looking contraption in her hand before closing it with a snap. Once assembled he realizes it's some sort of hook attached to a thin rope.

"Watch," she says. With one graceful motion, she throws the hook up into the rafters overhead, and then with a flick of her wrist, she is _flying_ forwards and upwards, the rope propelling her to the ceiling as she swings in a graceful arc across the large attic. When she lands on the other side with a soft thump of leather soles on wood, all Soris can do is gape. Kallian, on the other hand, is grinning ear to ear. Another flick of her wrist and the enchanted mechanical hook is in her hand again.

Soris shakes his head, his eyes still wide as saucers. "I already knew that you were crazy, but this confirms it."

Kallian's smile isn't dampened one bit by his words, but this is not a surprise. The only time she ever smiles is when one of her insane ideas actually works. "Probably. But now I have a way to strike from above." Grey eyes, the exact shade of his own, flicker to the black leather armor, mask and cape hanging on the armor stand. She says the words that he's been dreading ever since she told him of her reckless plan. "It's time."

Soris swallows the protests that he know will go unheeded, that he's already made countless times, and nods with a heavy sigh. While his cousin dons her dark leather, Soris moves to one of the windows and watches the purple of the dusk sky turn into full night, and prays to the Maker to watch over Kallian tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

(A big thanks to Dinah Lance for her awesome beta of this chapter and Zevran help.)

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_**Shadowalker**_ – _Chapter Three_

Zevran leans against the wall of the tavern, ale in hand, and waits. Of course, he does not look like he is waiting, or like he is watching the middle-aged human merchant on the other side of the room for that matter; he is a professional after all. The young lord standing in front of him with lust in his bleary eyes is his camouflage, and attractive camouflage at that. On another night he would indulge in what is so eagerly being offered, but, alas, tonight it is not to be.

The merchant rises, flanked by two lumbering Qunari. Usually Zevran would take the presence of bodyguards as a sign his mark knows about the contract on his life, but Denerim has been abuzz with rumors about a demon who strikes from the shadows exacting vengeance on the wicked. Zevran knows that he is far from innocent himself, but if there is one man in Denerim who deserves to face the wrath of the Shadowalker, it is this merchant. But since he is not being paid to stand around and wait for his mark to be removed by the superstitious imagination of Denerim's underclass, he finishes the rest of his ale, bids goodnight to the disappointed lordling and follows the merchant out the door.

The night breeze ruffles his hair and Zevran breathes in deeply. The cool air feels good after the stuffy warmth of the tavern, but truly Ferelden smells like a wet dog. As the merchant makes his way up the mostly empty street, Zevran follows from a distance, in plain sight at first and then slipping into the shadows when the trio rounds a corner to a back alleyway. Zevran moves slowly, keeping them in sight, trailing his quarry back to where he hides, intending to watch and wait until the moment is right.

But as he creeps down the alley behind his prey, the skin between his shoulder blades starts to itch. Zevran's muscles tense as he freezes perfectly still. Scanning the shadows, he sees no signs of a third bodyguard, but the Crow knows better than to ignore his instincts. When he sees the shift of a shadow overhead, he braces for a fight.

There is the smallest sound, like a sigh or a soft breath, and then gurgling from one of the Qunari bodyguards ahead as he paws at his neck with one giant hand. Zevran can see the poison dart sticking out from between the bodyguard's fingers as he pitches forward and lands face first onto the ground. The merchant lets out a startled cry while the second Qunari unsheathes a giant blade and pushes the human behind him.

Another soft breath signals a second dart flying through the air, but the remaining Qunari is prepared and it hits his gauntleted wrist, bouncing off and dropping to the ground. But no one, not Zevran, not the Qunari, and most definitely not the merchant who is already quaking in his boots, is prepared for what happens next.

It seems to drop from the sky itself with jagged wings spread so wide that it blots out the thin stretch of star-filled sky between the tenement buildings. Even Zevran takes an involuntary step backward, immediately feeling foolish. While the Shadow Walker is not the creation of drunken tall tales and hysterical peasants as Zevran had thought, he also knows that this creature must be mortal. For what kind of demon uses poison darts?

With two footfalls so soft that they could only be clad in true Antivan leather, the Shadowalker lands in front of the startled Qunari, crouching low, scooping up the poison dart in the dirt. The Qunari recovers quickly enough to heave his sword downward in a skull-splitting blow, but the blade whistles through thin air. The bodyguard doesn't even have time to lift the blade again before the Shadowalker appears behind him, pounces onto his bent back, and jams the dart into the giant's thick neck, leaping aside in a motion of fluid grace as the Qunari crumples to the ground.

Whimpering, the merchant tries to run away, the stench of fear and piss from his fouled breeches stinking up the alleyway. But a hook and a rope wind around his feet, sending him into a sprawl, and then a boot on his chest holds him down.

The merchant shivers and mewls and grasps her boot with white-knuckled hands, until the tip of a long, slender dagger appears at the hollow of his throat. "Please don't kill me."

And then a voice that unmistakably belongs to a woman. "Believe it or not, I'm not the one here to kill you." Her gaze shifts to where Zevran is still hiding in the shadows. "But the Crow that's been following you since the tavern is a different story."

Zevran cannot help but admire both her skill at spotting him and her bravado. He strides out into the dim light of the alleyway with an appreciative chuckle, spreading his hands wide as he steps over the unconscious Qunari. "I am afraid this is true. Although I must admit that I am surprised. I would have thought you wanted him dead too, considering the fate of his bodyguards."

He is close enough to see her eyes now, cold and grey, framed by a black leather mask that covers the top half of a heart-shaped face. She points a second dagger in his direction and Zevran stops short.

"Death is too good for him. I want him unmanned and covered in scars, so he can share the shame of his victims."

The man under her boot heel panics and cries, "They were just _whores_."

"They were daughters and mothers and women that you cut up for fun, _shem_," she spits, betraying her elven heritage with one word. "Because you didn't think anyone would care. Because you liked to watch them scream and cry as you raped them. And now, you're going to pay."

"Name your price. I'm a rich man. I can give you anything you want -"

The tip of her dagger cuts off his protest when it draws a draws a drop of blood. "You don't have anything I want."

"I am not usually one to argue with such poetic justice, but I must insist that he dies." Zevran peers down at the man lying prone on the ground. "Señora Belle was very, very displeased about what you did to her girls, you see. Cut-up faces, broken bones, crying girls – it is very bad for business. She may be a whore, but she is a wealthy whore and has paid the Crows a great deal of money for your death. But if it is any consolation to you, a clean death sounds better than what the Shadow Walker has planned for you."

Grey eyes glare at him with the sharpness of the daggers that she carries. "I told you. I'm not going to kill him."

Zevran draws his daggers. "No? Ah, well, no matter. I will take care of it if you are too squeamish. It will only take a few moments and then this unpleasant business will be finished."

Her full lips turn down into an attractive scowl. Leather creaks when her grip on the dagger tightens. "I'm not going to let you kill him either."

"Come now. Be reasonable. If you do not stand aside, then I will have to fight you." He flashes his most charming smile. "And what chance do I stand against a deadly sex goddess? Have mercy on me and let me kill him."

The look of bewildered outrage on her face only fuels his amusement. "_No!_"

With a sigh, Zevran shakes his head. "Ah, a pity then," he says as he strikes.

She recovers from her irritation barely in time to parry his attack. Blades flash and clash, catching the dim light in the alley way. The merchant between them tries to seize the advantage and crawl out of harm's way, but Zevran catches the man underneath the chin with a kick, sending him sprawling into the dirt again.

Her blows are not powerful, and now that he is circling her he can see why. The long cloak she wears hides a slender form built more for speed than strength. And she is very, very quick, slipping under his guard and grazing his torso enough to cut through the leather.

The cut is shallow, but it does bleed. "Oh ho, and you have scored first blood!" Zevran says, before using his greater strength to power past her blades and score a similar cut on her shoulder. He backs off a bit and grins at his work. "And we are even now, yes?"

Her only answer is an unexpected boot to his chest that knocks the wind from him as he staggers back a few paces. She presses her advantage, nearly scoring another blow.

Their blades lock together. "This is not a game," she snaps.

"You are so right, _belleza de la sombra_," he says with mock seriousness when his breath returns. "This is most definitely business. But business is much more enjoyable when mixed with pleasure, wouldn't you agree? Perhaps we should go back to your rooms when we are finished and discuss this some more."

He has the satisfaction of seeing those grey eyes widen and the pale cheeks stain, but no time to truly appreciate the sight, because the merchant has managed to untangle his legs from her rope and is running down the alley way screaming for the city guards.

Both elves curse as their quarry makes a getaway. The Shadowalker reacts first, sheathing her blades as she sprints toward her prey. Zevran sheathes his blades as well, but pulls a smaller, perfectly balanced dagger from his boot, and with a flick of his wrist, it flies through the air striking the merchant through the back of his throat. With a gurgle the man crumples to the ground, dead within heartbeats.

The Shadowalker turns to face him with a snarl, and Zevran laughs again and prepares for another attack, when the shouts of the city guards echo from down the street. She scoops up the hook and rope from the ground, tosses it into the air, and then she is airborne again, swooping over his head to the rooftop above.

When she reaches the top, she pauses. He cannot see her face, but can feel the weight of her lovely grey eyes glaring at him. Zevran bids her adieu with a wave that she does not return, before melting into the shadows himself and disappearing to the sound of pounding boots on dirty city streets. And in the morning he boards the ship bound for Antiva, still intrigued by the woman with the mask and blades, wondering if he will ever meet her again.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Shadowalker**__ – Chapter Four_

Sgt. Kylon hates Denerim.

He's been here for only a month and already the dreary miasma that hangs in the air has seeped into the leather of his boots, the fabric of his clothes and even clings to the metal of his armor. It is no place for decent folk to live, much less a place to bring a woman with child. But for his wife and unborn babe, Sgt. Kylon must make a living and as he is no farmer or tradesman there is little alternative. He is assigned the Market District, the worst section of the city outside of the unpatrolled alienage and given the recruits that no one else wants. Some are the illegitimate whelps of minor lordlings looking for steady pay and little work. Lazy and stupid morons who run crying to their noble fathers when yelled at too loudly. But worse than the overflow of noble bastards are the few veteran guardsmen, no better than criminals themselves, who use their authority to line their pockets with coin.

He runs afoul of the veterans the first time a chantry sister slips a pair of sovereigns into his hand and tells him the Maker would be grateful if he ignored their shakedown runs. Sgt. Kylon tosses the coins into the dirt, throws her in a cell and puts his boys on notice that bribes will not be tolerated, and as the free flow of easy money stops, resentment builds in the ranks.

But at the moment he has bigger problems. There are simply not enough guards, much less competent ones, to help stop the stabbings and pickpocketings plaguing the district. Even worse, a madman is prowling the city streets at night, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake. But instead of people being sensibly terrified, word on the street says the assaults are the work of a demon called Shadowalker who punishes the wicked and protects the innocent. Sgt. Kylon believes this to a fantasy born from desperation. Even when further investigation uncovers that the Shadowalker's prey are some of the worst criminals in the city, he believes the Shadowalker must be an enforcer for a rival faction, or a Crow hired to take out targets for one of the city's many crime lords.

It is a belief that he holds for months until one winter night when he walks a beat and hears the screams of a woman in the distance. He runs toward the sound, torch in one hand, drawn sword in the other and rounds a corner.

They are at the other end of the street, a man with a blade and a woman screaming as she's shoved up against the wall of a house. Her screaming stops when her head jerks back as a backhanded blow lands. The man laughs, cuts at her clothes, and says something rough and low that Sgt. Kylon is too far away to make out.

The blur of movement comes from the cold shadows. A surprised grunt and a crunch of bone leaves the man sprawled on the ground. He grabs his nose and wails like an infant until he is silenced by a kick in the head. A long dagger appears, gleaming in the torchlight, but the sound of Sgt. Kylon sprinting as fast as his armor allows draws the Shadowalker's attention.

The creature looks in his direction, and Sgt. Kylon gets the impression of grey eyes appraising him. It nods slowly, as though in recognition, before it moves again, this time a graceful gesture and then it is arcing above the narrow street until it lands on a rooftop and disappears into the shadows.

It takes both Sgt. Kylon and the terrified woman a few moments to recover from their shock.

"Get away from me," she snaps. She clutches the tatters of her torn blouse in one hand and covers her belly, heavy with child, with the other, and all Sgt. Kylon can think is that this could have been his own wife and unborn babe.

He sheaths his sword and holds his hand out in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. "Ma'am, I'm a city guard here to help you."

Her eyes widen and then remarkably she laughs. It is a bitter and hopeless sound. She points to the unconscious man on the ground. "You mean like him?"

Sgt. Kylon's eyes narrow and he takes a closer look at the unconscious man. Underneath the bloody mess of a broken nose, he recognizes the veteran's face. Sgt. Kylon swears profusely.

He turns back to the woman who is now shoving herself to her feet and realizes that he's seen the red hair, chapped hands, and pretty features pinched with tension before. She's a washer woman that lives on the block, her many children often playing in the streets while their mother works to feed them.

"Goldanna, right?" he asks.

"What's it to you?" she spits.

"Tell me what happened here," he says. Her face twists in confusion, and Sgt. Kylon waits in silence, until she realizes that he's not going to assault her too.

"I…" she swallows. "My man is sick. His medicine is expensive, so I borrowed some money, but when I tried to pay him back, he said it wasn't enough to cover the interest and that he was going to take it out in _trade_." She shivers leaving Sgt. Kylon in no doubt what she meant.

"Go on back inside."

She eyes the unconscious guard on the ground as though he'll wake up and demand retribution at any moment. "What about him?"

"He won't bother you again."

She looks at Sgt. Kylon as though she doesn't believe him and then spits on her attacker and delivers a kick for good measure. When she disappears into her house, Sgt. Kylon throws the unconscious man over his shoulder, takes him back to his headquarters and throws him in a cell.

The shitstorm that follows is expected, although not as bad as it could be were the guard one of the drooling noble bastards on his watch. But it is a small blessing, because there is still pressure from the Captain of the Guard to turn a blind eye. Sgt. Kylon refuses to budge, stripping the guard of his commission and locking him in the stocks for two weeks before tossing him out the city gates. Near dawn, when Sgt. Kylon walks the streets alone, retribution is taken.

They jump him from behind with clubs. Sgt. Kylon twists, catches the first with a gauntleted fist to the gut, putting all of his weight behind a blow that doubles the attacker over with a grunt. But more come from behind. Pain shatters through his skull as a club connects, sending him into the dirt. A kick to his back makes him arch in pain. And then his whole body explodes in agony as he is attacked from every direction and all he can do is go fetal as they work him over.

Sgt. Kylon cannot tell if it's mere seconds or an eternity before the beating stops to the sound of panicked shouts that are not his own. He cracks an eye, already starting to swell, in time to see one of the guards hit the ground in front of him. Another tries to run but something tangles his leg, and then the Shadowalker pounces, silencing the man's screams with one blow. As he pushes himself up to a sitting position, he realizes that the last two are in an unconscious heap already.

And then it is standing over him, extending a hand to help him up. He doesn't hesitate, grasping the slender hand and grunting as he's pulled to his wobbly legs.

"Are they dead?" he asks, nodding to his men.

"No." The voice is low and feminine. "I didn't think you'd want me to kill them."

"I don't. That would cause more problems than it would solve." As it was, he would leave them in the street and by morning they would be stripped naked by street urchins.

Now that she's not moving, he can see her more clearly now. She's no demon, just a slender woman in a dark mask that frames a pair of grey eyes. She leads him to a nearby alleyway and helps him sit on one of the crates.

"Why?" he asks wiping the blood from a cut on his face. "Why did you help me?"

Shoulders under a long cloak bob up and down in a shrug. "I've been watching you for awhile. You're honest and all of the right people seem to hate you, shem. I think I can help."

He blinks at her in surprise at both the fact that she's an elf and at her offer of help. "What? Are you serious?"

She nods.

"Well," he says as rubs the back of his aching neck, his eyes darting to his unconscious guards. "As you can see, I can't afford to turn any help down."

She nods. "Good. Can you make it back?" she asks.

"Don't worry," he grunts as he stands. He's got a shiner, a couple cracked ribs and his whole body is covered in bruises and yet a part of him feels more hopeful than he's ever felt in this Maker forsaken city. "I may have to cry some big sobby tears, but I'll live."

Full lips twitch in something that looks almost like amusement. She nods. "I'll find you soon then."

Before he can speak she steps into the shadows again, and a few heartbeats later there's no trace of her. But Sgt. Kylon knows she's not gone, because he can feel the weight of her grey eyes watching him from the rooftops as he walks back.

The next day his attackers come in one by one, stripped of their weapons and armor by thieves. Even though they won't look him in the eye as they resign their commissions, he can see the fear on their faces, for there is a rumor that Sgt. Kylon has a demonic guardian and no one wishes to cross him again. It's a useful rumor that he neither affirms nor denies. And a few nights later when the Shadowalker finds him, an unlikely partnership is forged between a shem sergeant and a vigilante elf, and Denerim is safer for it.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Shadowalker**_ _– Chapter Five_

Uncle Cyrion _knows_.

Soris sits with Kallian, enjoying the feast day meal, when Uncle Cyrion stops in the doorway. The pair of cousins fall silent when they see the grim fury sparking in his Uncle's eyes. There is a weight to his step as he crosses the room, each boot fall making the knot of fear in Soris's gut tighten until it seems as though he might burst from the terrible anticipation.

Kallian must know that she has been found out; it is the only one thing would infuriate his uncle this much. Her back goes ramrod straight. Uncle Cyrion stops and tosses something on the table. The Shadowalker's black leather mask lies between father and daughter as a silent accusation.

Finally he says, "Tell me this isn't yours."

Kallian doesn't look away from her father as she speaks softly. "I can't."

Uncle Cyrion is so angry that he is shaking. Soris has never seen him like this.

"Two years," he says, his voice starting low and rising with each passing word. "You have been out there risking death for _two years_."

Kallian doesn't say anything. Silence stretches to its breaking point until her father shatters it with his words. "How could you do this, Kallian? How could you do this to _me_?"

Kallian flinches and rises from her chair. "Father-"

"You lied. All of this time, you've been lying." His gaze turns from anger to scorn as he turns it on Soris, jabbing a finger at his wide eyed nephew. "And you – you must have been helping her."

"Don't blame Soris," she says. "I asked him not to tell you because I didn't want you to worry."

Uncle Cyrion's turns back to his daughter and snarls back, "You didn't want me to stop you." Soris knows that they are both right. "But I _am_ going to stop you. This ends _now_." Uncle Cyrion punctuates the word with a slam of his fist on the table, knuckles down. Pottery rattles at the impact.

His cousin squares her shoulders. "No."

Uncle Cyrion's face twists with both new and old grief. "I've already lost your mother. Do you have any idea what it would do to me if I lost you too?"

Her father's words fall on Kallian's slender shoulders like a physical burden. "I…" She trails off, and for the first time ever Soris sees doubt crack through Kallian's relentless determination. Soris realizes that he was wrong two years ago, that her father's words might have stopped her from donning the mask and cape had he known. But in two years everything has changed. Soris has seen for himself the hope that she brings the city dwellers, shem and elf alike, and knows that Denerim needs her.

"I have been careful," she insists. "I trained and prepared. I am good at this."

"You have been lucky," he snaps. "And one day, one of those shem will get lucky too and you'll end up dead in the gutter. I won't allow it."

His uncle turns his back on them and stalks to the door, pausing at the threshold when Kallian asks, "What are you going to do, father?"

"You both have run wild for too long. I am going to the Keeper to arrange marriages for you and Soris."

"_No!_"

He stops and pins them both with an accusing glare. "A husband and a family will make you responsible and keep you safe, and someday when you have children of your own, you will understand why I've done this."

There are no more words after he leaves. The silence between father and daughter does not lift over the next two months. Still, Kallian does not stop prowling the shadows every night, and Uncle Cyrion persists in finding a bride and groom for the pair of cousins. Eventually the wedding day comes, and Soris waits underneath the branches of the towering Vhenadahl wondering if Kallian is going to abandon their people's ways and shame the family or bend to the authority of her father. To his surprise, she emerges from her home wearing a bridal dress and a numb expression that he hasn't seen on her since the day her mother died. But a wedding is not to be. A human lordling looking for trouble and an impulsive act by Shianni changes _everything_.

When the ceremony begins, Lord Vaughan returns with a grin on his face and mad fury in his eyes. He laughs at the trembling panic he leaves in his wake, as though the terror he brings is some sort of mad joke. Kallian stands between Lord Vaughan and the others and tries to convince Lord Vaughan to leave them be. But Lord Vaughan won't be denied and defenseless and outnumbered, Kallian has no choice but to take a backhanded blow from a man who is twice her size. When she slumps to the ground unconscious, she and the other women are taken like the prizes of some demented game, their terrified wails and screams echoing down the street as they are carried away by Vaughan's men.

In the chaos that follows, Soris ignores the helpless confusion of the wedding guests and Uncle Cyrion's raging grief because he knows what must be done. He races up the steps of the tenement building to where Kallian keeps her gear and grabs his sword and cloak. At the last second, he shoves Kallian's weapons, armor and mask into a pack and throws it over his shoulder.

He is almost to the entrance of the Alienage when someone falls into step beside him. A handsome elf with wispy blond hair. Kallian's fiancée from Highever. It takes Soris a moment to remember the man's name.

"You should go back, Nelaros. This is going to get ugly," Soris says as he rounds the corner down an alleyway that leads in the direction of the Arl of Denerim's estate. "If they catch us, they'll kill us. And this is not your fight."

Nelaros's lips thin into a hard line and his purposeful step does not falter. "Not my fight? My fiancée is in there, just like yours. I can't leave her."

With a newfound respect for his cousin's groom, Soris rakes him with his gaze. Nelaros might be handsome, but his arms are all lean muscle and he knows how to hold a sword. But then, he is the son of a smith, so it is not a surprise. Soris knows that he is going to need all of the help he can get, so he nods in silence and continues walking until they reach the estate.

When they reach the keep, both men hide their weapons under long cloaks. With downcast eyes, they make their way through the gates, around the estate and through the kitchen garden. Picking up a few bushels of vegetables, they walk right past the guards and into the estate, no one thinking twice about the pair of elven men who look like servants until they pass through the kitchens and into the hall.

Guards shout. Blades are drawn from under cloaks and flash in the dim light, and Nelaros proves himself a capable fighter. In the end, one dead shem lies on the ground and a second is scored with cuts and gasping against the wall, held up by the two elven men.

Soris hands tighten on the cold chainmail of the guard's arm. "Where are they?"

"Piss off, knife ear."

Soris nods to Nelaros who slams the hilt of his blade into the guard's belly. The shem doubles over, coughing blood that splatters on the floor.

Soris bends and snarls in the guard's ear. "I'm going to ask you one more time, _shem_. Where are they?"

Nelaros takes his queue and stops the pummeling, and the shem guard gasps for air, and then laughs. "The room at the end of the hall to the right. Not that it matters. You're too late, and Lord Vaughan is going to gut you for what you've done."

"Maybe," Nelaros says. "But you're not going to be around to see it."

Nelaros swings his sword around and buries the blade in the guard's gut. With a gurgle, the human drops to the ground and dies. Soris makes no protest, knowing that they cannot leave any shem alive.

They drag the bodies to a nearby storage closet and hope that the bloodstains won't be noticed on the red carpet. But both know that time is not on their side and that it is only a matter of minutes at most before more come running. So when they reach the second corridor and Nelaros offers to stand guard while Soris goes to free the women, Soris agrees and leaves Nelaros behind without a second glance.

He bursts into the room at the end of the hall in time to see Kallian standing behind Nola's dead body, backing into a corner away from two advancing guards. They turn, shout and point at him, foolishly expecting him to be the greater threat. But Soris knows who is better with a blade.

Steel scrapes against stone and the sword slides, as though guided by the hand of the Maker, to Kallian. In her hands it sings a song of death and vengeance in a few graceful swipes, and then she is standing over their bodies, wedding dress splattered in blood, panting.

Soris tosses her the pack he's been carrying, and does his best not to look at a woman he has known his whole life lying dead on the floor. There is no time for grief now, only anger and action.

"We have to hurry. Nelaros is standing guard for us at the end of the hall."

Delicate brows lift as she hands him back his blade and pulls her gear out of the pack. "He came for me?" Something soft and almost wistful flitters across her face. It is so unlike her that Soris blinks in surprise.

"He insisted. He's a good fighter. Like you." Soris pauses because she looks even more pleased. "You know, if you put those on, he'll know who you are."

"Better my fiancée than the guards." She points down at the dead men. "You dress too. Put the helm on, and strip the other for Nelaros."

"We don't have time. We have to find the others -"

She cuts him off with an impatient shake of her head. "They took the others to Lord Vaughan. We're going to have to fight our way through half the keep. You need the armor. Besides, if we don't hide who we are, it won't matter if we escape. They'll come for you us and we'll be dead anyway."

He knows that she is right, but he can feel the precious seconds slipping by as she dons her leather and he strips the dead men. It seems like an eternity when he finally puts the ill fitting helm on that covers his face, picks up the rest of the gear and follows Kallian's flapping cape out into the hall.

They race down the corridor and turn the corner just in time to see Nelaros doubling over, blade sticking out of his back. Kallian cries out and sprints, but it's too late. And in the end, after more guards lie dead, she's kneeling over his body in a pool of blood. It is a tableau so eerily reminiscent of eight years earlier that Soris can practically see Kallian's mother lying on the ground.

"He died for me," she says, her voice gone cold and numb for the second time in one day. She pulls a gold wedding band from Nelaros's pocket. It glimmers softly against the black leather of her glove. "I didn't even know him." She closes her eyes. "We took too long…"

Words press against Soris's lips. How it's his fault for letting the smith come along. How he shouldn't have left him behind. How he's sorry for his mistake. But they won't come.

Her hand clenches into a fist around the gold wedding band. Kallian's eyes open, but it is the Shadowalker who looks back. Soris shivers as she says, "It's time to find, Lord Vaughan."


	6. Chapter 6

(Okay, we all know what happens to Shianni, right? Warning for rape and violence. It's not particularly graphic, but I don't want to catch anyone by surprise.)

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_**Shadowalker**_ – _Chapter Six_

Shianni watches the men advance, despair and terror clawing up the back of her throat, refusing to beg for mercy even though she knows what the filthy shem want. Hands close around her wrists, an inevitability she's dreading, but still she struggles and thrashes and kicks in their grip. Other hands invade, and with each touch it seems like a small piece of her soul is tarnished.

The shem lord leans down so they are face to face and he tells her in great detail what he is about to do. To her great shame tears streak down her cheeks, fueled by terror of the lust lighting his eyes. He crushes his mouth against hers, and Shianni fights back by biting his lip as hard as she can.

Lord Vaughan pulls back with a snarl and raises his hand as though he is about to backhand her across the face. Blood trickles down the corner of his mouth, down his chin and drips onto the pristine linen of his shirt. Vaughan brushes the bite with the back of his knuckles, wiping it across his mouth, but instead of wiping it clean, he smears blood from cheek to cheek, covering his lips in a macabre bloody grin. Perfect white teeth flash as he throws his head back and laughs, long and hard, the sound making Shianni's skin crawl as she shudders in terror.

And then he does everything he threatened and _more_. Shianni cannot stop herself from crying and begging and screaming for him to stop, drowning in helplessness and shame and pain, until she's hoarse and raw and bruised and bloody. Until her clothing is in tatters and her innocence is gone. Until his men join in. Until she falls silent and retreats to a place in her mind that the filthy shem cannot touch, no matter what pain or humiliation they inflict on her body.

Shianni is so numb that when their rough hands let go and the men turn to the doorway, she does not know why. And then she sees it, a dark figure that moves with liquid grace. Shianni draws her knees up to her chin and trembles, fearing that this _thing_ is a creature of Lord Vaughan's – something unnatural and demonic that he has summoned to torment her further. But instead angry words, muffled and distant, are exchanged. The slick sound of weapons being unsheathed pulls Shianni out of her shock and she realizes that this is the Shadowalker and it has come for Lord Vaughan.

There is a moment of complete stillness and coiled anticipation, and then Lord Vaughan sneers with that horrible bloody grin and strikes.

It moves so fast, a blur of black leather and silver steel, catching Vaughan's blade between slender silver daggers and deflecting the blow. But the demon is just one against three heavily armed shem. Worse, Shianni realizes that there is a fourth shem clad in a guard's armor behind the demon. She pushes herself upright and tries to cry out a warning, but her throat is raw and the words come out as a garbled croak.

But a warning is unnecessary. The fourth man does the unexpected, charging into one of Lord Vaughan's friends, slamming his shield into the man's belly and then jerking upward sharply. There is the crack of bone as metal and jaw connect. The man staggers backward stunned, but despite his broken jaw, does not drop his blade.

The sound of a flapping cloak draws Shianni's attention back to her demon savior who is fending off the other two men. They advance, and something small and shiny gleams in the Shadow Walker's hand. The demon throws it in the face of Lord Vaughan's second man. There is the tinkling of breaking glass, and then the stench of acid on skin fills the room as the man drops his blade and screams, clutching his eyes and falling to his knees.

Lord Vaughan's eyes widen. He snarls and hefts his blade in a sweeping arc. It grazes across the Shadowalker's middle. It hisses and twists, but the blade still cuts through the blackness, showing the pale skin, now stained red, underneath. For the first time, Shianni realizes that the Shadowalker is no demon, but flesh and bone.

Now that she knows the Shadowalker is mortal, Shianni can't breathe as she watches the pair circle. She is no fighter herself, but even she can see that both are skilled with their blades. Vaughan is slower, but so much stronger and larger and when he gets close, he looms over his smaller opponent. But he cannot catch the Shadowalker who strikes in quick movements, moving in and out of the large shem's reach with deft grace. Soon Vaughan's white shirt is covered with streaks of blood that come from shallow cuts crisscrossing his torso and back.

Vaughn laughs and looks down at his shirt. "You think this is going to kill me? Think again, bitch. I can do this all day." But the words come out not quite slurred, slowed in a way that is clearly wrong.

The Shadowalker's lips curve into a hard smile. "No, you can't. I've poisoned my blades."

Vaughan curses, but Shianni can tell by the way his face twists in fear and panic that the Shadowalker speaks the truth. As his movements become more desperate and erratic, the Shadowalker's become more precise. Instead of slashing cuts now there are pinpoint jabs. Under the shoulder. Through his side. Above the knee.

With a start, Shianni realizes that the Shadow Walker is _toying_ with him.

There is a gurgle to the side and Shianni turns in time to see the Shadowalker's ally pull his blade from the belly of a dead man, before stepping over the body at his feet and moving to the other man still wailing and clutching his eyes.

By the time Shianni turns back, Vaughan is limping and clutching his side. The Shadowalker does not relent, and as her ally kills the second guard with a clean blow, the Shadowalker strikes Vaughan's other leg, cutting through tendon and sending the lordling crashing to his knees. A kick against his wrist sends Vaughan's blade clattering away. And then the Shadowalker is behind him, blade to his throat, fist tangled in his hair. The Shadowalker jerks his head back and exposes the pale skin of the shem lord's throat.

Vaughan stills and swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "You kill me and my father will burn your alienage to the ground, knife ear. The streets will run red with your kind's filthy blood."

The Shadowalker snarls into his ear. "Denerim is my city, shem. If he tries, I'll kill him too."

The Shadowalker's cold grey eyes meet Shianni's gaze. Shianni nods and the long delicate dagger cuts across the shem lord's bare throat, creating another macabre smile that matches the blood that still smears Vaughan lips. Shianni watches his life flicker from his startled eyes, and feels only relief as her tormentor slumps to the ground, lifeless.

Behind the mask, the Shadowalker's eyes warm a bit, creasing with worry. "Where are the others?"

Somehow, Shianni manages to find her voice. "In the room behind that door."

The Shadowalker turns to her companion. "Go get them, Soris."

Shianni blinks as Soris pulls his helmet free revealing a face that is as familiar as her own. He nods and heads to the door.

Eyes wide, Shianni turns back to the figure now crouched in front of her. The grey eyes that look back are now shockingly familiar.

"Kallian?" she whispers.

Kallian nods and a sob tears through Shianni's throat. Kallian pulls her cousin into her arms, holding her while she cries.

Emotions too tangled to understand wash over her. Questions burn her lips. But right now there is only one thing she needs. "I want to go home."

Kallian pulls back and helps Shianni to her feet, helps her fix her torn clothing as best as she can. Soris picks the lock and herds the rest of the frightened women into the room.

"I know. Soris is going to take you."

"What about you?" Soris asks as he and Shianni exchange worried glances.

Kallian's eyes flicker to the door. "The guards will be coming soon. Someone has to draw them away so you can slip out the back."

Soris shakes his head. It is suicide and they all know it. "But it's broad daylight out there! You can't -"

Kallian cuts them off with a wave of her hand as she steps backward. "I can, and I am. Take care of them, Soris." She pauses at the doorway and gives them one last look. "If I don't make it back, tell my father that I'm sorry."

And then she's gone before anyone can stop her.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Shadowalker**_ – _Chapter Seven_

Sgt. Kylon's shift starts to the shouts of an angry merchant, furious with the mouth breathing incompetents that pass for city guards. Normally Sgt. Kylon would be more sympathetic as his men are drooling fools, but at the moment he can't tell which are worse: the merchant dwarf selling cure-all potions to the desperate populace or the thugs who smashed the stall and stole a crate of the useless extract to fence in a back alley. The merchant's angry cussing is followed by fourteen reports of pickpocketing, three muggings and street fight between two drunken laborers over a half empty bottle of wine. And when he returns to the guardhouse to toss the hooligans into a cell until they sober up, Sanga is waiting for him.

Sgt. Kylon groans and rubs the bridge of his nose. It's barely noon. If Denerim's most notorious madam wants to see him at this hour, it can't be a good sign. Neither is the fact that she sports a shiner on her pretty face.

"I have a problem," she says.

"You and half of the people in the city." But despite the weary words, he gestures to one of the rickety chairs in front of his even ricketier desk. "What happened to you?"

She pauses and sits, perching on the edge and folding her hands in her lap. "Lord Vaughan."

"Damn," Sgt. Kylon mutters as he drops into his own chair. In truth, he'd been hoping for a back alley mugging.

Sanga arches an eyebrow above her swollen eye. "My girls aren't the only ones he's roughed up then?"

"No." He does not elaborate. He does not have to. Denerim's native son has done nothing in the last seven days since his return but tear a swath of destruction from one end of the city to the other.

Sanga's lips thin. "I was hoping he would never come back."

Sgt. Kylon leans back. The worn wood creaks under the combined weight of muscle and armor. "Do you know why was he sent away?"

It's a question he's been asking for almost two weeks now but hasn't heard anything other than nebulous rumors and vague remarks about a scandal that happened years before he came to Denerim.

"The only thing I know was that King Maric himself exiled Vaughan. Vaughan's always been a bastard, especially when it comes to women. He must have crossed one of high rank." Her delicate hands clench in her lap. "Does it really matter now that he's back and making up for lost time?"

Sgt. Kylon lets out a deep breath. "Look, Sanga. It kills me that he's out there running loose, but if I bring him in without the authority of someone higher up the food chain than his father, Vaughan will be out in an hour and it'll be my head on the chopping block."

"Then get the authority," she says, as though finding a noble ally is a simple thing for a lowly sergeant.

"Do you really think I haven't tried?" He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "Official word from Captain is hands off Urien's son." A stance, no doubt, brought on by bribes from his powerful and wealthy father. With a shake of his head, he takes in Sanga's pretty face and fine clothes, paid for by much of Denerim's male elite. "Frankly, you have more influence with the right people than I do."

"Probably," she agrees. "But they all left with the King for Ostagar. The only person of real power left in Denerim is the Queen. And Considering the circumstances, I doubt she'd listen to _me_." Sgt. Kylon wonders if it's because she is a madam or if it's because she's a madam who is rumored to serve the King himself. Before he can decide, Sanga's eyes alight. "But she might listen to you."

"I tried. I couldn't get past her advisers." Sgt. Kylon figures that either the Queen is being kept in the dark by someone on the take, or she doesn't care what Vaughan is doing. Either way, no help will come from the crown.

Sanga nods as though this was the answer she was expecting. She meets his gaze and murmurs. "There's a rumor that you have a friend who could take care of this problem..."

Her words tighten the cold knot of fear that has been in his growing in his gut since the first report of Lord Vaughan's mayhem reached his ears. His hand nearly goes to the summoning stone in his pocket – the magical device that signals when and where one of them wishes to meet. It has been oddly silent the last few days, as though the Shadowalker has had other things occupying her attention.

For almost two years the Shadowalker has helped him stop smugglers, catch murders, avenge rapists and catch thieves, but this… this man is beyond what either of their reach. "If the Shadowalker takes him out, there's going to be hell to pay for everyone in this city and you know it."

From all he has learned about Lord Vaughan, he is not the kind of man who would head a warning, even a nearly lethal one from the Shadowalker. Most likely anything short of killing him would only encourage him more. But killing a Bann would draw the ire of the entire nobility, and who knows what the Arl himself would do to avenge his son? It's the only reason Sgt. Kylon hasn't brought Vaughan to the elf's attention already. Although considering the destruction the Lord has already caused, it's only a matter of time before Vaughan and the Shadowalker cross paths and one of them ends up dead.

It's almost as if the thought summons the guard that bursts into room, panting for breath, doubling over, and clutching his knees as though he's just sprinted halfway across Denerim. In between gulps of air, the red faced guard confirms Sgt. Kylon's worst fear: Lord Vaughan lies dead by the Shadowalker's hand, and the Captain of the Guard is summoning every available man to search her out and kill her on sight.

Swearing, Sgt. Kylon runs out of the guardhouse in time to see a contingent of the Captain's elite guards marching towards the docks. As the midday sun beats down, he follows the shouts ahead and falls into a quick trot. But instead of yelling at his own men to pick up their pace, for the first time ever he is grateful for the noble bastard's laziness.

Instead Sanga is the one who keeps pace with him, her face looking grimmer and grimmer the closer they get to the docks. When they are close enough to see the waves and feel the cool breeze, she points overhead. "Look!"

The dark shape sprints along the roof of the adjacent tenement, dark cape flapping behind. Four guardsmen wearing the Arl of Denerim's livery chase her with drawn swords. Bogged down by their armor they cannot catch her, but she is running out of rooftop and the gap between the street and the warehouse on the other side seems too wide. The Shadowalker doesn't even break stride as she launches herself off the end. The men behind trip and stumble to keep from falling off of the edge.

For a few seconds Sgt. Kylon's heart seems to stop completely. She almost doesn't make it, arcing almost short of the building, only catching hold with what seems like the very tips of her gloved hands. She clutches the lip of the roof, her strength the only thing keeping her from plummeting five stories into the street below.

Sgt. Kylon can almost hear her grunt of pain as she tries to pull herself up. But the creak of bows being drawn snaps his attention to the men on the ground and one word booms through the shocked silence.

"Fire!"

Bows twang. Arrows arch. The Shadowalker pulls herself up with agonizing slowness. She almost makes it clear, but one arrow catches her square in her thigh. Sgt. Kylon flinches and hisses as though it is his own wound as she limps out of sight.

Within seconds the building is surrounded by both the city guards and the Arl's personal soldiers. Sgt. Kylon's stomach twists as he realizes that this building stands alone along the pier, flush along the docks and ship births.

For the woman who saved his life, there is no way out.

There's nothing Sgt. Kylon can do as men that outrank him bark out orders. A fight erupts between the Captain of the City Guard and the Lieutenant in command of the Arl's men over who gets the honor of storming the building. Arl Urien's Lieutenant prevails in getting the city guards to back off, claiming that the Shadowalker is _theirs_ to kill. But Sgt. Kylon knows that it is not loyalty to their lordling that fuels their claim. It is terror. For if they do not return with the Shadowalker's corpse, it will be their heads that adorn the walls of the Arl of Denerim's estate.

Urien's men rush the front entrance to the warehouse finding it locked tight. There are no windows within reach, and the back entrance is discovered to be equally secure. Kylon wonders what the hell is stored in this warehouse that requires such protective measures, but is also grateful that for a moment the Shadowalker is safe.

It takes minutes of futility hacking at the front entrance with their weapons for the soldiers to scrounge up a makeshift battering ram that allows them to break the heavy wood down. In the meantime, the street clogs with onlookers drawn by the clamor, and Sgt. Kylon orders his men, who have finally appeared on the scene, to establish a perimeter and keep the growing crowd back. He can't help the Shadowalker, but he can keep innocent bystanders from getting caught in the crossfire.

A squad of ten soldiers vanish inside. For many agonizing minutes nothing happens. Outside, the growing crowd becomes restless. Shouts break through the murmurs. Word spreads of Lord Vaughan's death by the Shadowalker's blade. Some cheer the guards, but even more yell for the armsmen to let the Shadowalker free.

The crash of breaking glass draws everyone's attention upwards as a guard soars through a third story window. Another guard follows quickly, his screams silencing with a sickening crunch of shattered bone as he hits the dirt street. More cheers and angry shouts erupt from the crowd. A minute or so passes before another man comes stumbling out of the front entrance, moaning and clutching his face. Three more eventually stagger out of the building, with broken bones or covered in blood, faces pale with fear as they babble about the demon they think is inside. No more men walk out, and neither do they answer the calls of the other guards.

A second wave of the Arl's men are sent in and then a third of the City Watch's elite unite, each meeting with similar fates, each time the crowd growing more excited and difficult to keep back. And when the Captain of the Guard and Urien's Lieutenant agree that torches should be brought, the crowd begins to surge. It's everything Sgt. Kylon and his men can do to keep the crowd back, and he knows that they're on the edge of a full scale riot.

Sgt. Kylon watches in horror as the guards set the warehouse on fire, headless of their injured brothers and sisters in arms who might still be inside, or the dry summer weather, or the danger of fire to the rest of the city. A dwarf pushes through the crowd shouting, face red with panic as he points at the building. Sgt. Kylon can barely make out the words over the roar of the crowd, but then his eyes widen as the meaning strikes home.

The warehouse, that is now burning, stores crates of _lyrium sand_.

It's already too late to put the fire out between the dry wood, heat of the summer and the sea wind. Flames are already consuming the first floor. Sgt. Kylon shouts for his men to move the crowd back as far as they can. For once they actually follow orders, but the crowd wants a better view, pushing against the guards until the first explosion rings from the warehouse.

Everything descends into blurred chaos. People screech and panic, stampeding away from the building, trampling those in their path. More deafening explosions rock the ground. Heat rolls out in a great wave and everyone runs, desperate to get clear of the building that is now a towering inferno.

One last explosion rattles the windows of nearby buildings. Black smoke blocks out the sun. Fiery debris and hot ash rains down singeing bare skin. Kylon keeps people moving, stopping only to pull Sanga to her feet and push her in the right direction, keeping as many people moving as he can until finally, three blocks away, he's clear.

And then the real work begins to keep the fire from spreading into the city and pull the wounded clear of debris. Royal soldiers appear and seize authority, but the work of extinguishing the flames seems endless. The damage is extensive, and by the time the fire is under control almost an entire city block has been reduced to ash. It is full night before Sgt. Kylon is able to sit on a crate and catch his breath and rest his aching muscles. More troops from Ft. Drakon arrive to relieve Sgt. Kylon's singed and weary guards.

Sgt. Kylon knows he should go home and hug his wife and son before he collapses from exhaustion. But all he can do is look at the where the warehouse once stood and wonder if somewhere in Alienage tonight a family will be panicking because their daughter or sister or wife hasn't returned. The urge to act is strong. He should be the one who breaks the news to whoever might grieve for her death, he owes her at least that, but even though he has worked with the vigilante elf for nearly two years, he doesn't even know her name, so instead he stands and heads for home.

He's halfway back when he feels the magical vibration of the summoning stone. For a minute, he's too shocked to do anything, and then he's ripping off his glove and fumbling through his pocket. Callused fingers wrap around the magical object, and then an image of a back alley that he barely recognizes on the northern end of the city near the piers flashes before his eyes. His heart hammers more from anticipation and hope than exertion even as he runs through the dark streets.

Sgt. Kylon slows as he reaches the narrow path between buildings. It is deep into the night now, and this far from the rubble the streets are mostly quiet, but he draws his sword anyway, not knowing what to expect.

He spots movement at the other end, close to where the water laps the pier. He approaches cautiously, and then he sees her – a slender woman propped up next to the wall and a face that he does not recognize. But he can see the pointed ears underneath short cropped hair, a nasty gash above her left eye and a face covered in blood. Her leg is stretched out and a makeshift bandage is covered in blood. And whatever she was wearing is now in complete tatters and smells like charred leather, the skin underneath red and blistered.

He crouches next to her, wondering if this is really her, wondering if he's too late. But he can see the rise and fall of her chest. He reaches out and touches her hand. Slender fingers fall open revealing the summoning stone and a gold wedding band. Grey eyes that he would recognize anywhere flutter open, and she struggles to speak, but she falls unconscious again.

It's her. He doesn't know how she escaped that blast, but he supposes that doesn't matter now. And so he scoops her up as gently as he can and makes his way back across the city trying to stay as out of sight as he can, briefly considering taking her to the Alienage. But he doesn't know who would help her, and he doesn't want to draw attention to her by being the shem who creates an uproar in the middle of the night, so instead he takes her to someone he knows is sympathetic and will provide refuge if he asks.

One of Sanga's girls leads him through the discreet back entrance and down a quiet corridor to a room with a narrow bed where the madam herself awaits. Sanga murmurs to the elf about sending for a healer and Sgt. Kylon frowns.

"Don't worry," she says as the girl leaves and the door shuts behind her. "I know someone who is quite discreet. He doesn't want to be discovered anymore than you do." She places her hands on her hips and looks down at the woman now on the bed. "So who is she?"

Sgt. Kylon clears his throat. "Just someone who got caught in the blast."

But Sanga is no fool. The slash wounds, burns and the filthy blood-soaked bandage that binds the elf's leg make her identity obvious. "_Right_."

She ushers him to a nearby table and then in her very capable hands things start to happen. A girl brings blessed food and wine and as Kylon gratefully eats and rests, a healer comes – a human man with a glib smile, smart words, and a gold earring that shines in one ear. Kylon knows an apostate on the run when he sees one and suspects that the apostate knows a guardsman by sight too. By mutual silent agreement both men do their best to ignore each other.

The mage does excellent work and within an hour she breathes a name before falling into a deep healing sleep. Sanga sends one of her elven girls to the alienage and returns with a pair of men, one young, one old. The hope that shines on their faces turns to relief. Tears streak down the face of the man who could only be the Shadowalker's father, as he kneels by the bed and holds her hand in silence. Sgt. Kylon takes the younger one aside. He doesn't even have to interrogate the kid who willingly tells the horrific story of a wedding day interrupted and the chance meeting between a monster and a hero. When the boy is finished, Sgt. Kylon nods and leaves the family, who has been through enough for one day, in peace.

Dawn breaks over the city as Sgt. Kylon returns to his own home to a tear streaked embrace of his own. He holds his wife and own son close, grateful that Denerim's native son is dead, but fearful of the wrath his returning father will bring.


	8. Chapter 8

A huge thank you to both Dinah Lance and mutive for their awesome betas that turned this from a boring slog into something that's hopefully much more entertaining.

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_**Shadowalker**__ – Chapter Eight_

Zevran takes his leave of Arl Howe with a mocking bow, but as the door to the study closes shut behind him, Zevran knows his death is now more likely than not. For his contract to kill two Grey Wardens, when one of them is a mage no less, is sure to end in his demise. While it is not a surprise, the thought does not sit as comfortably as he expected.

Unwilling to dwell on past choices, Zevran shrugs off his unease and turns his attention to the empty hallway. He chuckles and shakes his head at Arl Howe's arrogance, or perhaps it is provincial ignorance, for in Antiva even fishwives would know better than to allow a Crow to wander unwatched in their home. He looks down the hallway to the double doors that lead to the great hall, curiosity arising from the sound of many voices talking over the clank of weapons.

The urge to investigate is strong. Information about the machinations of a powerful noble is as much a currency in his work as gold coin, though truly there is no need now. Still, he has been a Crow too long to ignore his instincts. So instead of leaving and preparing for the job he was hired to do, he moves down the corridor to the double doors of the great hall and cracks the door, astonished by the number of armsmen he sees polishing their weapons and preparing their armor. Intrigued, he listens. At first all he hears is banal talk of women and wine and weapons and tactics. But when talk turns to their preparations, one name is repeated with anger and fear.

_Shadowalker_

More questions buzz in Zevran's mind, but he dares not loiter in the hall any longer. Zevran leaves the Arl of Denerim's estate, and finds himself in tavern after tavern, looking for answers. The earful he gets is both impressive and intriguing. Zevran hears tale after tale, some about those she has avenged, some about how she is a demon, but most about the events of a few months before that left Lord Vaughan dead and a city block burned to the ground.

When Zevran enters Denerim's alienage, he stands out even amongst his own kind, his blades, leathers and Antivan accent setting him apart. Suspicious glares are sent his way despite attempts to charm the locals. As conspicuous as he is, Zevran knows if alienage is her home, it is only a matter of time before she hunts for him.

So Zevran makes his way to the highest roof in the alienage and settles in to wait. Indeed, the sun has just dropped below the horizon, and the sky is streaked with purple, when the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle. No sound betrays her presence to his sharp ears, but he knows she is there.

He does not turn to face her, merely gesturing with a gloved hand to the spot next to where he is sitting. "Ah, so the rumors of your survival are true."

This pleases him, much more than he thought it would. Perhaps it is her relentless determination, or her daring to kill a human lord. Perhaps it is that unlike the elves in the alienage below, this one chooses to fight instead of cower. Perhaps it's the strangeness that someone with the skills of a Crow, who could make much coin, fights to protect and avenge others instead. Or maybe it is simply that he fancies people who are dangerous and exciting. Whichever it is, she intrigues him and he is glad that she is not dead.

She does not sit next to him. Instead, he feels the point of a dagger pressed to the small of his back. He spreads his hands wide to show that he holds no weapon. The Shadowalker is so close that he can feel her breath against his pointed ear and smell the Antivan leather she wears, which warms him to his belly.

"You have my attention, Crow. Now what do you want?"

"Merely to pass along some useful information."

His words must catch her by surprise because she is silent for a few moments. Still, the dagger at his back does not move. "And what is the price of this information?"

"A kiss perhaps?" He chuckles as the dagger presses into his back with a bit more pressure. "No? Well then this time I will offer it for free."

He can almost see the confused frown and wonders if her lips are as full as he remembers. "I'm supposed to believe that an assassin would offer me information out of the goodness of his heart?"

"I must admit that if I were you, I wouldn't believe me either. But I assure you that the information is legitimate."

"Then speak," she snaps.

"Arl Howe is planning on sending his guards after you. Very soon."

More silence, but this time the point of her dagger eases back as she shifts her weight away. "You're wrong," she murmurs.

Zevran turns to face her, pleased that her lips are as full and grey eyes as lovely as he remembered. "I assure you that I am not wrong. I was just at his estate and saw his men preparing for battle. They were speaking of you."

She shakes her head, dismissing him. "I know. But they're not coming for me. Not directly anyway." Her grey gaze flickers to the top of the towering Vendahal tree and the line of her slender shoulders tightens underneath her cape. "They're going to purge the alienage in retribution for what happened to Lord Vaughan."

At her words he is torn between chagrin that his information is wrong, disappointment that she already knows, and amusement at himself for being disappointed.

"Ah, I see." He takes in her mask and cape. "And they hope to get your given name from those they capture, yes?"

He knows he is right by the way her lips tighten. She rises from her crouch and says, "I have to go."

Zevran is not about to let her leave so easily. He rises and glides into her path in one fluid movement. "You must know that you cannot save them. All you will do is die. You should flee."

The Shadowalker places her gloved hands on the curve of her hips. "I should, should I?"

"Yes." The words that leave his lips next surprise them both. "Come with me."

She blinks at him. "Abandon my people to face the wrath of the Arl and run away with a hired killer whose name I don't even know? Unlikely."

Zevran grins. "I do not know your name either. So I do not see why that should be a problem." At the stubborn set of her jaw, he grows serious. "You cannot help them. Even you can't kill the entire city guard."

The corner of her mouth turns up into something that is almost a smirk. It is the first time he has seen her amused and it only fans his intrigue. "I don't plan on it."

Zevran's brows lift. "You have a plan then?"

"I do."

"And what is this daring plan of yours?"

"To stop the purge before it starts."

Zevran's brows lift even further. "You are going after Arl Howe then. Alone?"

She shrugs. "That is how I usually work."

For the second time that night, words that surprise him fall from his lips. "Let me help you."

The Shadowalker's mouth falls open before she recovers enough to turn away. "I don't trust you enough to let you come," she says over her shoulder as she picks her way across the pitched roofline.

Zevran falls into step behind her, feeling no qualms about killing the man who has just hired him, even though the Crows would frown on his actions. "Then I will follow you instead."

She stops, turning to glare at him. "Don't make me tie you up."

Zevran throws his head back and laughs, as his body tenses in anticipation. "As fun as it would be to be bound by such a beautiful woman, you would have to best me first. Do you really have time to waste playing games when your alienage is in danger? Can you afford to turn my help down with the fate of your people in the balance?"

He watches the words strike home as her glare softens into something thoughtful as she asks. "Why are you doing this?"

He isn't sure of how to answer in a way she can understand. Because he is curious and intrigued. Because it would be dangerous and exciting and _fun_. Because as much as he thought he wanted his death, now that it looms he is in no rush to get there.

So he says with a shrug, "Because the last time we met, I spoiled your plans, no? It only seems fair that I help you now."

The Shadowalker's eyes narrow as though she expects his betrayal at any second, but then her gaze darts to the next rooftop. "Then keep up if you can, Crow."

Zevran smiles and spreads his arms wide. "Come now. If we are going to be committing daring acts of vigilante justice together, you must call me Zevran. Zev for short."

Her only answer is an indignant scoff as she sprints across the rooftop and leaps across the gap between buildings. With a shake of his head and another laugh, Zevran follows her into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Shadowalker**_ – Chapter Nine

Arl Howe sits before the blazing fire, goblet in hand and waits for his manservant to finish preparing the room for the night. It is slow and sloppy work, but it cannot be helped. All of the elves in the keep have been dismissed from service, replaced by humans unfamiliar with the routine. It is the only way to keep warnings of the imminent purge from spreading to their kind and to ensure his safety in the aftermath.

It is a pity. Elves are hard working, affordable labor and on the whole more obedient than human servants, but Howe cannot allow Lord Vaughan's death remain unpunished even though the young lordling's demise is most convenient to his political ambitions. The vigilante's actions have upset the delicate peace in the alienage, giving the elves the courage to voice their unrest, and now because of the actions of one lone hooligan, a purge is necessary to assert Howe's new authority and maintain order. Howe is certain that there are those in the alienage who know the Shadowalker's identity, and when the vigilante is captured and removed as an obstacle, the status quo will return and Howe will be able to govern the city as it should be.

Satisfied that he is taking the best course of action, Arl Howe rises and with a wave of his hand dismisses his manservant. He turns in to bed, knowing that the next day will start early as his armsmen will assemble at dawn. The room goes dark, except for the soft glow of the fire in the hearth, and it is not long before he falls asleep.

It is the soft scrape of metal on metal that pulls him from his dreams. Howe's eyes flicker open but it is too dark to see. In the silence, he can barely hear the sound of bootfalls padding across the woven carpet that covers the floor. He slides a hand underneath his pillow, fingers tightening around the hilt of a dagger. Howe's heart races as he waits for the assassin to get within striking range, and when the footsteps stop next to the bed, he rolls over and strikes.

The dark figure in front of him jumps back with a hiss, narrowly evading Howe's blade. Howe scrambles upright and opens his mouth to shout for the guards, but a leather glove from behind clamps over his mouth muffling his screams while another twists his arm against his back, forcing him to drop the dagger.

He grasps with his free hand at the attacker behind him, struggling to break free before the inevitable knife is slipped between his ribs, but it is a prick at his neck that is his undoing. Howe moans as his muscles go limp, and despite the fear seizing his heart telling him to fight for his life, there's nothing he can do.

The last thing he sees before the world goes dark is a cold pair of grey eyes.

When he awakes a second time, it is to the sharp tang of smelling salts. It takes a minute or two to realize that he is bound and blindfolded. His wrists and ankles ache from the chafing of the rope, and he feels strangely lightheaded. But other than that he is unharmed, which means that his kidnappers want something from him.

Howe wonders who has sent this pair, for his quick political ascension has left him with more enemies than he can count. His first assumption is the Shadowalker, but he has never heard of the vigilante working with a partner. Besides, recent reports bring rumors that both Cousland whelps still live. There are also the enemies he has made by dispatching Arl Urien only a fortnight earlier as well as all who oppose his support to Teyrn Loghain's ascent to the regency.

Cool wind whips his face, telling him that he has been moved somewhere outside. He jerks his chin up in defiance. "Whoever you are, you are dead if you do not let me go."

A woman speaks. Amusement laces her voice. "I don't think you want me to do that."

He ignores her cryptic bravado for the nonsense that it is. "I am the right hand of the Regent himself. He will not stand for this. His men will find me." Howe knows this for certain. Not out of loyalty or friendship, but because Loghain needs his support too badly to allow his demise.

"Yes," she says. "They probably will."

She falls silent again and Howe's teeth grind. Silence stretches. Howe grows increasingly light headed, and there is an increasing sense of _wrongness_ that he cannot place as seconds slip away.

Eventually, he breaks the silence with another demand. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to call off the purge."

Howe laughs as he realizes who holds him captive. He no longer is afraid because her concern for the rabble of this city makes her weak.

"We both know that if you kill another noble, the wrath the Regent and the bannorn will make a little purge of troublemakers seem like _child's play_." He pauses for dramatic effect before continuing with a generous offer. "I'll tell you what. If you and the one who helped you tonight release me and turn yourselves into my guards, I will show mercy and leave the alienage untouched. More or less."

Silk slides against his face as she pulls the blindfold away. "You misunderstand. This is not a negotiation."

It takes a few seconds of blinking confusion before his mind can make sense of what his eyes are seeing. When he does, his calm is shattered by a scream that bounces off the stone wall of his keep and echoes out into the night.

The blindfold is shoved into his mouth, muffling his panic. The Shadowalker smiles, unperturbed by the fact that she is clinging to the side of one of Denerim's highest towers by her fingertips. She gestures to the keep that Howe now dangles upside down over. "You can't imagine the effort it took to bring you up here. If you are going to be unreasonable, I'll have to send you the short way down."

She pulls a dagger from a sheath, and scampers up to the rope that that keeps him from plummeting to his death and begins to saw through it. It is the most unnerving sound he has ever heard.

Eyes wide, Howe shakes his head and screams against the gag, begging her to stop, promising that he will do whatever she asks. After many long and terrifying seconds, she pauses, still holding the blade against the line and looks down at him, cocking her head to the side, grey eyes glinting.

"I see that you have had a change of heart."

He nods his head as vigorously as he can and is glad that the gag muffles his whimpers of relief when she sheaths her blade.

"Then understand this, _shem_. I will set you free, but if you do not do stop the purge, nothing will stop me from hunting you down. There won't be anywhere you can hide, and what I will do next will make this look like '_child's play_.'"

And with that, she lifts something to her lips. There is another prick in his neck and the world goes black again.

When Howe wakes for the third time, he is lying unbound on the stone floor of the tower. For a moment, he wonders if it was some sort of terrible dream, but the rope burns around his wrists and the taste of silk on his thick tongue say otherwise. Howe pushes himself to his feet and staggers slowly down the circular steps that lead back to the keep. Headless of the fact that he is still wearing his nightclothes, he passes his private chambers and heads to his study, where he pours a generous glass of brandy for himself.

The liquor warms his chill skin and steadies his nerves enough to think, and soon his fear is matched by his fury. He wants nothing more than to order his men to burn the alienage to the ground for her audacity, especially since he is certain that whoever helped her this night must be one of her alienage allies. For for who else would help this elf tonight? But he cannot stop his hands from trembling when he thinks of her threat. Howe has no doubt of her ability to take her revenge if he does not do as she commands. Still the thought that he, a lord of the Bannorn with three titles to his name, would bow to the order of an elf is too much to bear. He drops into the seat before his desk, torn between fury and fear, glowering at the papers in front of him until the Captain of the Guard appears at the door.

The captain of blinks and barely manages not to stare at Howe's disheveled appearance as he snaps to attention and says, "The men are assembled the courtyard below, m'lord."

Howe does not respond. He sits in silence, ignoring his captain's confusion and increasing discomfort as the seconds pass. Finally, he spits the bitter words out. "Dismiss them."

"Sir?"

Howe meets the man's wide eyed stare and snarls. "Do it."

There is a split second hesitation, before the captain makes a curt bow. "Yes, m'lord," he says as he turns to scurry from the room.

But Howe does not notice. His gaze falls to the letters before him, attention snared by a letter received a week ago that he had tossed aside from the Tevinter mages, who have a request that he had dismissed as unthinkable, but now has _possibilities_.

"Wait," Howe says, before the captain can leave. He scrawls a quick note to Ferelden's Regent requesting a meeting as soon as possible, seals it with wax, and hands it to the Captain. "After you dismiss the soldiers, have this sent to the Regent at once."

The captain leaves, and Howe stands and walks to the window that overlooks the courtyard. Hands clasped behind his back, he watches the confusion as his men are unexpectedly dismissed, but the sight is not as bitter as expected. For now he has a plan. One that he knows the Regent, desperate for coin to fund his army, can be persuaded to accept. One that will pit powerful mages against a vigilante in the heart of the alienage, wiping out both her and those who would ally with her. One that will get him the revenge he desires with minimal risk to himself.

So rubbing his chafed wrists, Arl Howe returns to his quarters, summons his manservant and prepares to put his revenge into motion.


End file.
